


The Blood of the Lamb

by 8BeautifulChaosGirl8



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bible, Discussions of Christianity, Gen, Redemption, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam-Centric, Stigmata (Freeform), Stigmatic Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8BeautifulChaosGirl8/pseuds/8BeautifulChaosGirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been unclean long enough. Soon, he will know redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood of the Lamb

Sam can’t sleep. Dean is snoring, dead to the world and Sam can’t even close his eyes for the feeling something needs doing. Urgently. For the life of him he doesn’t know what. There’s nothing abnormal in the room. He casts his eyes around it making double sure. It’s familiar in its drab décor, pretty much like every other motel or motor lodge they’d ever laid their heads. He pulls himself up and swings his leg over the bed, thinking he might as well make use of this insomnia to get some work done. It’s the old itch, bury yourself in saving people. It’s a distraction but it’s also so much more. It’s a guilty soul crying for penance, a blind child working towards uncertain repentance.   
He opens the dresser drawer, meaning to grab his laptop but there’s something beside it pulling him up short. The standard issue motel bible. He slips his hands under it, cradling it like a baby’s head and switches the bedside lamp on. He remembers all of those times in past motel rooms, when there was no TV and nothing else to do. Dean would read him Bible stories. Hell, he practically learned to read from these things. He knew how to spell “Messiah” before his own last name. This too was familiar but different. Tonight, somehow, it was different. Somehow it was meant for him. The itch was muted a little as he cracked it open, laying it out in cupped hands. It fell open to Psalms. His fingers flicked through until he found it, the one something beyond him seemed to be guiding him to. Psalms 51. In a low voice he began to read to himself. 

1 Have mercy on me, O God,  
according to your unfailing love;  
according to your great compassion  
blot out my transgressions.  
2 Wash away all my iniquity  
and cleanse me from my sin.  
3 For I know my transgressions,  
and my sin is always before me.  
4 Against you, you only, have I sinned  
and done what is evil in your sight;  
so you are right in your verdict  
and justified when you judge.  
5 Surely I was sinful at birth,  
sinful from the time my mother conceived me.

That hurt. His hands clenched and he could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. Why did moments like these always come in the night, when he was most alone? All he was doing was trying to sleep and he felt like someone has seized by the collar, by the throat. These age old, arcane words, written by some shepherd boy long ago, how did they know he’d never in his life been clean? He remembered every kill, every time he succumbed. He remembered Lucifer and he remembered hell. He could never really forget them. 

6 Yet you desired faithfulness even in the womb;  
you taught me wisdom in that secret place.  
7 Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;  
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.  
8 Let me hear joy and gladness;  
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.  
9 Hide your face from my sins  
and blot out all my iniquity.  
10 Create in me a pure heart, O God,  
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.  
11 Do not cast me from your presence  
or take your Holy Spirit from me.  
12 Restore to me the joy of your salvation  
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

He was begging now, weeping his heart out to something unseen. They were someone else’s words yet he knew, they were also his own. He didn’t do poetry but he did do hurt. He did that really, really well. 

13 Then I will teach transgressors your ways,  
so that sinners will turn back to you.  
14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,  
you who are God my Saviour,  
and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.  
15 Open my lips, Lord,  
and my mouth will declare your praise.  
16 You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;  
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.  
17 My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;  
a broken and contrite heart  
you, God, will not despise.

He bent forward, knees pressing the Bible to his chest. He was silent, suddenly exhausted.   
“Samuel”  
His head shot up and he looked over at Dean. His brother had not moved, except now his mouth was open and he was drooling on his pillow. He hadn’t called him. He never called him ‘Samuel’. Sam turned away and lay down, wiping his eyes.   
“Samuel”  
Again he sat up and looked at Dean. Nothing. He hadn’t called him. Something tugged at the back of his head. Something from those old bible readings when he was small. The day he found out he had a “bible name”. The day they’d read about the Boy Samuel. He took up the battered book again and opened it. This time to 1 Samuel 3. 

The lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the house of the Lord, where the ark of God was. 4 Then the Lord called Samuel.  
Samuel answered, “Here I am.” 5 And he ran to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.”  
But Eli said, “I did not call; go back and lie down.” So he went and lay down.  
6 Again the Lord called, “Samuel!” And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.”  
“My son,” Eli said, “I did not call; go back and lie down.”  
7 Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord: The word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him.  
8 A third time the Lord called, “Samuel!” And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.”  
Then Eli realized that the Lord was calling the boy. 9 So Eli told Samuel, “Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’” So Samuel went and lay down in his place.  
10 The Lord came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!”  
Then Samuel said… 

“Speak, for your servant is listening.” Just as the boy Samuel had said them those many, many years ago, Samuel Winchester now said it, aloud to a ramshackle motel room.   
It’s no big thing. No flash of light or trumpets blaring. It doesn’t even wake Dean. But suddenly he’s there, standing right by the bed and Sam’s stomach is in his throat. He lurches back on his bed, almost falling off.   
“Don’t be afraid Sam. I came because you called me. I have good news.”  
“Am I dying?”  
He smiles. He looks nice when he smiles. Sam’s surprised he’s not beatific. Just an ordinary man, save for the fact that he glows faintly and Sam feels like a baby in his presence.   
“I said it was good news. I am here to answer your prayers”  
“What are you going to do?”  
“Sam Winchester, the boy with demon blood in his veins. The boy who never felt pure, not even as a child. I am here to do what I do best. I am here to make you clean.”  
Sam’s voice shakes “how?”  
He’s still smiling. “By re-enacting the eternal sacrifice. I will take your sin, your iniquity and you will take my grace. I will take the death, you can take the life”  
Sam’s whole body trembles and he has the inexplicable urge to fall to his knees. “Why me? What have I done?”  
The smile grows sad and there’s now a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “The same reason I help anyone dear heart. Because I love you and because you asked.”  
The hand that was on his shoulder is now holding his wrist and the other does the same. Sam sits there, stupefied, while this man he’s still not sure is real splays his fingers over his veins.   
“First we will drain the wound. This filth has been in your body long enough.”  
His wrists are hot, red, and itchy.   
“It will take a while and you must be patient. I will return but this you must endure alone.”  
Then he’s gone and Sam doesn’t even notice him leave because there’s blood bubbling up out of his wrists. It stinks like he remembers demon blood does but he’s not hungry. He’s sick. He runs to the bathroom and lurches over the sink, retching. Dean finally rouses, hurrying to find the white porcelain stained with bile and blood.   
He rushes to Sam’s side, seizing his wrists. Sam flinches out of fright but there is no pain. There is blood gushing from holes in his freaking wrists and he feels no pain.   
“What did this? Sammy? Who did this to you?”  
Sam turns to face him, pale, eyes shining. “I think it was Jesus”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Dean sits on the bed, gritting his teeth. He can’t stop staring at his little brother though the picture hasn’t changed in days. Sam sits on the couch, crimson wrists perched on the edge of a slowly filling bowl, watching TV like nothing’s wrong. Like whatever’s oozing out of him doesn’t burn through every bandage they try, like this isn’t the 6th time this bowl will be emptied today, like he isn’t trying to make Dean believe that this is some fucking blessing from Jesus.   
Dean doesn’t believe in Jesus. Not even after seeing angels and demons. Not even after being in both heaven and hell. All he knows is his brother’s bleeding out poison and he should be more upset about it.   
They can’t go to a doctor. This is too weird. Sam won’t let him call Bobby, saying there’s nothing to worry about. Dean replays that conversation over and over in his head. 

Jesus?   
Yes, Dean Jesus. As in Messiah, Son of God Jesus.   
Why would Jesus do this to you?   
Because I asked him to!  
YOU ASKED HIM TO BLEED TO DEATH?!?  
No, that’s not what’s happening here. I asked him to make me clean.   
How is this making you clean? Coz as far as I can see you’re staining everything you touch.

Then there was that face Sam does so well, the one that means Dean is being such an idiot Sam can barely stand him. Dean calls it his bitch face. 

I think it’s the demon blood. He’s getting rid of the demon blood.   
How are you supposed to do that without losing your blood too?   
I don’t know, he’s Jesus he can do anything. 

Dean can’t argue with someone who uses fairy-tale logic it’s just too frustrating. So they fell into this uneasy silence. Well, uneasy for him. Sammy’s been walking on air this whole time. Dean convinced he’s hiding the pain but he will admit, kid’s doing a really good job. He seems almost, peaceful about the whole thing. Resting easier than he ever had, laughing at every stupid thing the TV says. Meanwhile Dean can’t sleep at night for fear his brother will slip into a coma. 

It’s when Dean finally does fall asleep, 5 days after it started, when the bleeding finally stops. Sam is roused by a warm hand at his forehead and he’s here again. Sam’s not scared this time.   
“I was wondering when you’d show up again”  
He laughs and Sam grins “All things in their time dear heart. After all patience is a virtue.”  
He takes Sam’s wrists and wipes them gently. When he lifts his hand, Sam’s skin is pink and white, soft and new. Clean.   
His hands now stained, he leans over and touches Sam’s forehead with his fingertips. Blood, ruby red and pungent like wine and roses run down his face, tears warm and sweet.   
“This is my blood poured out for you. This cup, a new covenant in my blood for the remission of sins. My blood is now yours, my righteousness your own” He presses a cup and piece of bread into Sam’s hands. “Take and eat. You will need your strength.”  
When Sam tips back the cup, He leaves. Sam finishes the wine any way and it combined with the bread makes him feel like he won’t have to eat for days. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Dean was upset before he’s livid now. He sits by Sam’s side, swearing up and down he will never go to sleep again if this is what happens. The smell of roses and spilled wine fills the room, the sheets are ruined. Sam’s bangs are clumped with blood and sweat. He lies in bed, babbling about Romans and Pontius Pilate. Every now and then he falls into a language Dean does not recognize, spouting some crap about “Eli” and llamas or something*. Tears fall down his face and yet he’s smiling. Like a baby.   
Dean feels so useless, he uses Sam’s computer to do a little research. He finds out Pontius Pilate is the man who ordered Jesus’ crucifixion. He looks at artwork of Jesus bleeding just like Sammy is now, except he has a crown of thorns on his head. It’s when he looks deeper into the fact that the blood never clots and that stupid flower stank that he discovers there’s a name for Sam’s condition. 

Stigmata. The wounds of Christ.

All the sites say it’s supposed to be a blessing, that people behaving like Sam is now are in some kind of religious ecstasy. But it can’t be because Christ’s passion is supposed to hurt. Like a bitch. Yet Sam’s not in pain. Sam’s also not exactly saint material like all these other cases. But for now it’s the best he’s got.   
He’s like a crappy nursemaid, constantly mopping Sam’s brow, changing the sheets, encouraging Sam to drink the wine that they have for some reason because it’s the only thing he’ll take. He has to say if it weren’t for the gory rivulets of scarlet on his brother’s face he would say he was looking rather well. Despite the fact that he’s been bleeding constantly he has lost no color. His eyes are bright. If only he weren’t babbling at and about people who aren’t there. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He has to put Dean to sleep the third and final time he comes. That boy is just too stubborn. Again he wipes Sam clean although this time they both stay clean. Sam is roused out of his visions and smiles to see him again.   
“You…”  
“Yes Dear heart it is me. I have come to visit you for the last time”  
“You… you won’t come again?”   
“Not like this. How have you found your healing?”  
Sam sits up “it’s like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s… magnificent. ” He turns to his brother and his face lights up “could you do the same for Dean?”  
“Ah Dear heart. I cannot go where I am not welcomed.”  
“He deserves it just as much as I did…”  
He puts up a hand and Sam is silent “it is not about the deserving. It is about who is open to me. I greatly desire to bless your brother but I cannot force myself upon him.”  
Sam’s face falls   
“Come now. This is not a night for despair. This is a night for renewal. For sanctification”   
he offers his hand and Sam takes it. They slip out into the night air. Sam blinks and they’re in a field, with a whole host of stars above them. Sam is full of questions. Emboldened by the night air.   
“Dean was telling me about these marks, this thing you were doing, when he didn’t think I could hear him. He said they’re supposed to hurt. How come mine didn’t?”  
“Your blessing was not refinement through suffering. You have done quite enough of that for the time being. You needed rest, refreshment not the fire. So that is what I gave you.”  
“Why me?”  
“I have answered that one already.”  
“Who are you?”  
“I think you already know Dear Heart. Any last questions before I perform the last rite of cleansing?”  
“Yes. What is the last rite?”  
“Baptism.”

And with that it begins to rain. 

Up above all those lights Sam mistook for stars, rejoice at this victory. Sam Winchester is forgiven.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
*Sam is saying Eli, Eli lama sabacthani, the words Jesus spoke on the cross before he died.


End file.
